Wicked Transgressions
by damnitjane
Summary: Teresa Lisbon has no memory of why she has a card with Patrick Jane's name on the back. Patrick Jane has no idea why Teresa Lisbon has a 25-year-old card from his Carnie days with his father on her. As he helps her regain her memory, he revisits secrets he thought he buried long ago...and falling in love with her brings back his wicked transgressions against her all over again.
1. Strange Connections

**A/N: This idea came to me as I was drifting off to sleep, lol. I think it will be great fun. I know exactly how the entire story goes, so updates should be quick at first. Feedback appreciated! I do not own Mentalist or its characters.**

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><p>CHAPTER ONE: STRANGE CONNECTIONS<p>

PRESENT DAY

The smell of death and disinfectant was almost enough to make him turn around and find the nearest exit. He swallowed the lump in his throat and travelled on through the long corridor, his face sneering at every fraud in white coat that past him. He had learned long ago that the only person he could trust with his life was himself. The people he was passing now in the halls were the kind of people who prayed on the weak and sick. He knew this all too well. He had spent years doing it himself, taking from the sick and unfortunate souls that dared to walk into his father's tent to watch the Boy Wonder work his "magic".

There was something to be said about how he compared Doctors to swindlers and con-artists. Doctors, at least, helped people in their own way. What he and his father had done was nothing short of giving false hopes to people looking for miracles. He sighed at this sad, truthful thought as he made his way to the end of the hall to the nurse's station. The sign above told him that he was in the intensive care unit. He put his hands in his suit jacket to settle the twitch of his fingers and leaned forward toward the heavyset woman dressed in yellow scrubs.

"Excuse me," he said far more politely than he wanted. "I was told to meet a Doctor Rockland?"

She said nothing, but pointed to a small conference room down the hall to his right. He didn't thank her for her silent answer. He walked to the door, which held a black **CONFERENCE ROOM 2B** on the door, and pushed it open. Inside, it was empty except for a table and two chairs in the center of the room. He just walked around the table when a fraud in a white coat stepped inside and closed the door, greeting Jane with a smile.

"Won't you have a seat?" Doctor Rockland said, pointing to the chair opposite him. "We can discuss why you were called here."

"I'm fine standing," Jane told him. He didn't like his exit being stunted by having to get up from a chair. "What's this about? You weren't real clear."

It was two days before when he was tracked down on his phone. He was about to go on stage and suck in some rich suckers at one of his shows when he answered the phone and the good Doctor, here, told him there was something they needed his help with. Normally, as he would do with these frauds, he would have hung up, but the Doctor insisted that it was a matter of importance. Here he was. Soon, there he would go. He didn't plan on sticking around long; curiosity was a strange weapon.

The Doctor opened the folder he brought with him and pulled a photograph from its position, sliding it across the table and pointing to it. Jane leaned over and picked up the photograph.

"This woman came in here a few days ago," he explained. "She was in bad shape."

Jane saw a brunette woman with piercing green eyes staring back at him. She had scratches on her face and a deep gash on her head, that was wrapped with gauze. He peered into the scared eyes of this woman and felt an uncanny sensation; he was sure he had seen her before. He had an excellent memory... memory palace, he called it. She, however, was not so much as a memory as she was a connection. He could _feel _meeting her before.

"Who is she?" Jane asked, his eyes falling to the Doctor. "I mean, does she have a name?"

"Her identification says Teresa Lisbon, but that's all she had with her," he told Jane. "Besides a Glock."

"A gun?"

"Yes." The Doctor hesitated, and then went on. "She doesn't have any memory of who she is. She took a nasty hit on the head."

"She was assaulted?" Jane asked, concerned though he had no idea who this woman was.

"We can't be sure, but we think so."

"Why call me, then? I don't have any known connection to this woman," Jane told the Doctor, sliding the picture back across the table toward him. "Why am I here talking to you?"

It was true that he didn't know the connection he felt to her. All he knew was that he felt he had met her before. It was almost overwhelming how his mind kept turning to the picture of her now burned within his mind. The brown hair that framed her pale face and the green eyes that seemed to question him through the paper.

"She had this in the pocket of her pants," he told Jane, reaching into the folder and sliding a single business card across the table. "We asked her about it, but she doesn't remember why she has it."

Jane looked down and a wave of uneasiness swept over him. The business card was very familiar to him. Jane reached down and picked it up, running his fingertip over the embossed letters in the front:

**ALEX JANE AND HIS BOY WONDER, PADDY**

**MASTERS OF THE MIND**

**FAIRGROUNDS TENT, CENTER COURT**

The card was easily twenty five years old. It was yellowed at the corners from age. Flipping the card over, there was Jane's name inscribed with his phone number. That is how they knew to contact Jane. What was this Teresa Lisbon doing with this card, and why was his name on the back? Twenty-five years ago, Jane had been a young boy working with his dad in the carny circuit. There was nothing from that time Jane wanted to relive. He put the card back down on the table and shook his blond curls at the Doctor.

"I don't know her," he told him truthfully. "I've don't know why she has this in her possession."

The doctor reached over and went to put the card back in the folder but stopped himself. He looked at Jane and sighed. It was clear to Jane, who cold-read him as soon as he entered, that his man wasn't going to let it go so easily. The man's posture struck Jane as one of intense calm, and the fact the Doctor probably broke some protocols to contact Jane was telling that he was someone who cared about his patients needs.

"Would you mind at least talking to her and see if she recognizes you? It might be helpful if she saw something she sees familiarity with," he explained. "You can keep the card and ask her about it if you want, Mr. Jane."

"I don't—"

"You would be doing her a favor, Mr. Jane," said the Doctor. "And me, too."

Jane walked around the table and sighed. He didn't want to be here. There were rich, fat, suckers to bleed in his shows. He had to cancel two appearances to drive all the way here, and this was starting to become a tedious task. But, as much as he hated being here, he couldn't deny the strange connection to the woman in the photograph, and his own curiosity as to why she had a twenty-five year old business card from his father was in her possession. He couldn't place her face at all in his memory palace, but he was sure he would remember her anywhere. He supposed he had no problem with just seeing what this woman could tell him. Maybe he could try one of his tricks to help her remember something. She seemed vulnerable enough to hypnotize...

"Fine," Jane told him. "Where is she?"

"This way," the Doctor told him, gathering up his folder and standing up. "Thank you, Mr. Jane."

"Yeah, yeah," he replied cockily. "Frauds and now guilt trippers, too. Go figure."

**-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x -**

Teresa Lisbon sat back against the pillows on her hospital bed and picked at the intravenous snaking down her arm into her hand. She looked around the room and sighed. Why was she here? How had she gotten here? She, of course, knew this wasn't possible to answer. She didn't even know who she was. The nurse told her what they found on her identification, but other than that, she didn't know much else. No. Not that she didn't know...she just didn't _remember_. She didn't even remember where she was heading, how she lost her memory... nothing. She had begged to be let go as soon as they had bandaged her head and tended to the cuts on her arms, legs and face, but they refused. The nurse had told them that they were looking for someone who knew her to discharge her, first. Lisbon heard the door open and lifted the covers up to her chest in an automatic response.

"She's in there," Lisbon heard the nurse tell someone. "I'll close the door behind you. Give you privacy."

"Thank you," she heard a man respond back, followed by the door squeaking shut again behind him.

Lisbon peeked around the drawn curtain around her bed and could see only the top of a head of hair full of blond curls. Suddenly, the curtain was yanked back and she was staring at a man in a suit who had the bluest eyes she had ever seen. She felt herself trying to remember if she had ever seen him before, but nothing would come; her mind was a blank canvas.

"Who are you?" Lisbon asked, tilting her head diagonally as if to take him in. "Are you a relative of mine or something?"

"You don't know me, then?" Jane asked her. "You don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

"Well, that is the problem, isn't it?" he responded, plopping himself in the chair beside her bed. "You lost your memory."

"Thank you for the confirmation, Captain Obvious," Lisbon responded grumpily.

"You still have your sarcasm, I see."

"Why are you here if you're not related to me?"

A thought hit Lisbon, and her stomach did a backflip.

"Are we... are you..."

Jane laughed and tapped his finger on his lips. His amused smile made Lisbon angry and embarrassed. She shook her head and closed her eyes, wishing she were somewhere else right about now. Her eyes were startled open by a hand on her upper arm. She whipped her head around to see that Jane had moved closer to her, his fingers wrapped tightly around her bicep.

"You all right?" he asked her.

"Yeah," she answered slowly. "Uh, just... never mind."

He let go of her arm and sat back again, cocking his head at her. The area in which is fingers touched her tingled. There was something on the edges of familiar about the touch, but she couldn't place it. She watched as his eyes scanned her face; the cuts and gash burning into his pupils. She thought he looked a bit concerned, but he face was impassive after a few seconds.

"So," Lisbon started. "Who are you? What's your name?"

"Patrick Jane," he told her. "And they tell me you are Teresa Lisbon."

"Well, if they said it, it must be true."

This wasn't sarcasm anymore. This was the truth. She had no idea who she was, so she relied on them to tell her. Teresa Lisbon didn't exactly have any significance to Patrick Jane, though, because his tone and his look told her he didn't know her. Rather, his look told her that he didn't place her. There was a peculiar glint in his eyes as if he was trying hard to place her face. His eyes scanned hers and he stared at her silently, waiting for her to continue.

"Do you know me?" she finally asked him.

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

She watched as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a white card. He felt the card with his fingertips before holding it up to her eye level. Lisbon leaned over a bit to read the card. Lisbon shook her head and straightened herself again. She could feel his eyes stare at her intently as she blinked rapidly. She shrugged her shoulders and watched as Jane turned the card over and tap the back with his finger.

"This was found in your clothes, Mrs. Lisbon," Jane told her. He took a glance at her finger on her hand and rephrased. "Miss Lisbon."

"I don't remember anything about myself! What makes you think I will remember a scrap of paper in my pocket or what it was doing there?" she snapped.

"You wrote my name on the back," he told her. "Did you know that amnesia patients never lose their handwriting styles?"

She watched as he put the white card on his knee and dug in the interior of his jacket for a notepad and pen. He grabbed the card from his knee and stood, plopping the notepad down on the food tray at the foot of her bed. He drug the tray up to her and held out the pen for her to take.

"What the hell is this?" she replied indignantly, furrowing her eyebrows.

"Compare the handwriting to the back of this card." He shoved the card down onto the tray. "It'll match yours, I bet."

"What is that going to prove? I still can't remember why I have it or what it means."

"Well, it would prove you wrote my name down on this card and were looking for me. I can work with that. We can figure out why and what you were doing with my name."

Lisbon picked the card up and read the black embossed letters on the other side of the card. She looked up at Jane and burst out laughing, sending herself into a choking fit. She leaned forward to cough and she felt his big hand tap her gently near the spine in an attempt to help clear her throat and stop her coughing. The sensation of his fingers on her back were the same as the ones she felt on her bicep earlier. There was something very familiar to her, but the images would not come. She felt him retract his hand and she plopped back on the pillows and coughed once more.

"You're a _psychic_?" she laughed. "Paddy... _Boy Wonder_..."

"Something like that," he said simply. "Please just write my name down."

Lisbon cleared her throat and took the pen, writing down his name on the notepad. She handed him back the pen and held the notepad up next to the card. She turned the card back over to where Jane's name was printed. The handwriting matched perfectly. She did write it, then. But why? She just didn't remember anything about its circumstances.

"It's the same," Jane told her. "So, now we can move forward, at least."

Lisbon looked up at Jane. She couldn't help but feel like he thought he knew her somehow. She wished she could say the same thing. She had that nagging feeling she was connected to him somehow, but her memories up to her hospital stay were gone. What did he mean by 'move forward'? Was he going to try to help her gain her memory back? Why would he help someone who was a complete stranger to him? Surely not because she had a card on her that had his name on it?

"Are you going to put me in a trance something?" she asked him seriously.

It was Jane's turn to laugh. He had an amazing smile, she noted. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and opened them, reaching to take the notepad, pen and card from her. He placed them back in his jacket and crossed his arms.

"You mean hypnotize you? No. I was going to do that, but I suspect you won't be able to recall anything. You are blocking your memories on purpose. I mean on purpose as in unconsciously," he told her. "No. I am afraid you will have to get them back on your own. Triggers may help, but..."

"Triggers? Wait...wait..."

"I assure you, my methods are safe."

"Why would I let you do anything to me?"

"You do want your memory back, correct?"

"I sense some other reason you want to try to make me remember," she replied, pushing the tray away from her. "Besides, I can't leave. I need someone I know to discharge me."

"I admit," he told her, "that I have...there is_ something _I feel toward you... a connection."

"I thought you didn't know me?"

"I don't. I feel like I've _seen_ you before, though."

Lisbon couldn't believe what she was hearing. This man seemed to have met her before. In the very least, he has seen her before. But he doesn't look sure. He's a stranger to her! Well, there is a nagging feeling, but that isn't enough simply for her to take this guy's word for it and have him do his voodoo magic tricks.

"I can't leave."

"You can if you let me take you home. They'll discharge you from here and we can go on our merry way."

This was ludicrous. Was she actually contemplating leaving the hospital with this strange guy? She could ditch him as soon as they got out of the hospital... He really wanted to know how she knew him... or what she was doing with his name, at least.

"I'm not going to murder you," he told her, rolling his eyes. "Too messy, and it would be too dumb. I'd be signing you out of here, you know."

"You'll take me home? Wherever "home" is?" she asked.

Oh, God. She really was trusting this guy. There was something about him that drew her in. His cocky attitude was something she could live with, and whatever the hell his tools were for trying to regain her memory were probably wouldn't be employed before she took off from him. She'd find out who she was on her own, thank you very much. He was just her ticket out of this place. She didn't like hospitals.

"Yes," he agreed. "If that is where you want to go. Your address is on your identification. But first, we go searching for triggers, yes?"

"Okay."

"Let me get the Doctor, and we can get the hell out of this place. I feel like I am in a political convention and everyone is wearing white coats."

He turned and left her there. He was strange and cocky. He was arrogant in his own rite...

Something flickered inside her mind; something familiar and dark surrounding this Patrick Jane.

But just like a dull candle with a short wick, the flickering stopped and her mind went blank.

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><p><em><strong>Next chapter we will be going into the past. Should be fun.<strong>_


	2. House Of The Theif's Son

**CHAPTER TWO: HOUSE OF THE THIEFS SON**

**CHICAGO, 1985**

Twelve-year-old Teresa Lisbon walked along the gravel road on her way back from taking her brothers to school. The day was warm and sunny, as a heat wave swept up from the west and battered the Chicago area. She turned her face up as she went the opposite way from which took her to her house—and her abusive, drunk father. She put a hand in her overall pocket and felt around for the small box she had brought with her. It was still there. Extracting her hand, she reached into her overall's other hip pocket and fished out a folded, torn poster. She looked at it longingly before replacing it back in her pocket. She walked a few blocks before she could hear the music playing soft and cheerful and the lights flashing in the blinding sun in the distance. She could see the huge ferris wheel tumble and circle back around and she could even almost smell the kettle corn cooking.

Teresa walked another block, pushing through the heat that sweltered, stopping in front of a small ticket booth where **CARNIVAL! $2 ADMISSION **was flashing in red and white letters above. When the man asked her for the two-dollar admission fee, Lisbon put her hand back in her hip pocket and dug out the money she had hidden from her father that her grandfather gave her for her twelfth birthday. If he had found it, he would have taken it and used it to feed his addiction. Instead, she had hidden it underneath her floorboards in her room. She gave the man the money, and he gave her an orange ticket and let her pass him. She walked into the carnival and looked around. There were rides and food and music. These things did not intrigue Teresa Lisbon. The families passing her laughing and giggling only added to the reason she was here.

In the center of the carnival was a tan tent. It wasn't fancy or told you it was different, but Lisbon could _feel_ it. She pulled out the poster from her pocket and compared the tent to that of the poster. It was the same. The small sign in front read: **MASTERS OF THE MIND: ALEX JANE AND HIS BOY WONDER, PADDY**. This was the right place. Tucking the poster back in her pocket, Lisbon walked up to the tent and went inside.

**-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

His eyes scanned the crowd filling the seats, his fingers pressing open the curtain that led to the small stage. His slick blond curls fell in front of his blue eyes as his head raised up to get a better look at the suckers fielding inside the small tent. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned around startled.

"Good crowd tonight," Alex Jane told him, laughing noisily. "Should be easy targets, too."

Jane smiled at his father and turned back to the people filing in. He saw a few people that were easy to read from where he was. It would be easy as pie tonight so long as his father didn't mess up the signals he threw him.

"What about her?" his father asked, pointing to a girl with mousy brown hair and the greenest eyes Jane had ever seen. "She's about your age... we should be able to work with that. Can you read her?"

Jane shrugged and watched as the young girl took a seat two rows from the stage. He watched her put her hand in her pocket and hold onto something in her palm. He knew this was an unconscious act; it was something that meant a lot to her, but something she kept hidden from everyone else. Jane could tell that this object was something from a parent. Nothing could evoke a response of coveting like a parent's bequeath. He would have to get closer to her... talk with her, perhaps, to get more from her.

"I can get a few things from her," he told his father, "but I need to get closer."

"Well, get _to_ it, boy! We've got twenty minutes before the show starts. Don't you make me save your ass like last time!"

With that, his father turned on his heels and disappeared to the makeshift dressing room at the other end of the back rooms, leaving Jane to surf the crowd looking for easy marks. His interest, however, was only for the girl in the second row, sitting quietly with her hand in her pocket. There was something about her that he found intriguing. She was about twelve or thirteen, but he could tell that she had trauma in her life, already. Young and broken. He could tell by the dark circles under her eyes and the way she held her head down at all times. Under that, there was something else about her that made him want to tell her to get out of here; that his father and he were not the kind of people she probably thought they were. Of course, he knew it was too late for that.

Jane made his way around to the sitting area for their guests, his eyes finding where the young girl was sitting. He noticed that her hand had moved from her pocket and now was splayed across her collarbone. Jane didn't need to be a pretend psychic to know she was mimicking a necklace. It was an old trick that people used to feel closer to their loved one when the object they held dearest was a necklace. The same for rings and bracelets, too. They would often touch the area the object belonged. So far, his cold reading of this girl was that she lost a loved one recently, was a broken child, and had something dear to her with her that was a necklace.

He walked toward her but stopped when her head snapped up suddenly and her emerald green eyes met his blue ones. He nearly froze in place at the intense heat of her gaze. In her eyes, he could see pain and anxiety. There was something in her regard that made him feel pity and understanding. She turned her eyes from him and he exhaled a breath he didn't even know he was holding. He couldn't risk talking to her now. Instead, he walked around to the back of her and observed her. Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was really only minutes, Jane could see his father from his peripheral vision wave him over, which meant they were soon ready to start. Jane looked at her one more time before walking up to start the show.

"Get anything?" Alex asked his son.

"A few things," Jane answered back. "The usual sob stories."

"Good, good. Anything from the girl?" He nodded toward the girl. "Can we use any of it?"

Jane hesitated, his gaze falling once again to the girl. Jane shook his head finally and turned back to his father.

"Nothing," he told him. "She's no good to us."

Something passed over his father's face, but he simply grunted and took his son by the shoulders. Jane had this happen many times, and had gotten so used to it that he was no longer scared. He simply stared at his father and listened.

"You _listen_ to me, boy," he told Jane lowly. "When I give you the clues to what I am holding, you better not mess it up this time, you hear me? If I ask you, _'_What do I have in my hand this_ time?' _and you don't tell me it's a goddamn _watch_, we are going to have a problem, son. Use my clues, you understand?"

"Yeah," Jane told him. "I got it."

"Good." He smiled and clapped his son on the back. "Let's go empty some wallets, son."

Jane sighed and followed his father to the stage entrance. With one last scan of the crowd, they stepped up on the wooden platform that served as their stage to clapping hands. Jane stood next to his father and watched as he raised his hands in the air to quiet the crowd. Jane was used to this routine by now. He often zoned out as his father went into his trademark skit about how his family were a bunch of "seers", which of course, wasn't true. The only ability the Jane's ever had was conning people out of their hard-earned money just to get a glimpse of hope. False hope. The Jane's could no more talk to the dead then the Earth could flatten itself.

Jane's eyes looked over the crowd for targets, but his eyes kept falling back to the brunette girl who seemed out of place in the crowd full of people. Now, however, she was staring right at him. She tilted her head at him and he found himself unable to look away from her deep, penetrating eyes.

"...right, Paddy?" he heard his father say, bringing his attention back to the task at hand. "Ready?"

"Yes," he said loudly. "Tonight, be prepared to be amazed at the _Masters of The Mind_! I will dive into the unknown and tap into another world. I'm the _Boy Wonder _and wonder you shall."

His father walked down the stage steps and into the crowd and watched Jane as he scratched his left ear to tell his father that he had cold read the person he was standing behind.

Jane took turns from various people guessing what his father was holding up or who the person came with. It was usually the same routine over and over again, and it was almost like reading books he's read a million times. These people left large amounts of cash after the show for such "abilities". Sure. _Abilities_. More like professional cheating. The schtick was always the best and most fun parts of the job. They could even connect people to lost loved ones... only the connection was observation such as a missing ring that told Jane a spouse had died and the person wanted to connect with them or they were wearing something of the deceased that Jane pinpointed as being out of place, such as an old broach or handkerchief.

When his father stood directly behind the girl, however, Jane shook his head ever so slightly. _Please not her_, he thought.

"What about this young lady, Paddy? Do we have anything for her?" his father asked, a smile etched across his devious face.

There was silence from Jane, and he could feel the crowd shift uneasily. Finally, unable to escape the situation, Jane put his hand to his temple in mock concentration. He hated this. He didn't normally have a problem with this, but this girl was innocent and broken. The adults they conned out of money were nothing to him. This girl looked like she had little money to offer. She just came here hoping there was something for her from someone she loved. She just believed... believed in the wrong person to deliver that to her. This girl only had her hope to offer.

"I see you lost someone close to you," Jane started, his heart beating against his ribcage violently. "You have something of hers on you, no?"

He hated himself. He hated his father. The look on her face when he asked her that nearly crushed him into pieces. A weak smile crept across her face and her eyes lit up as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small red box that she kept in there. This is what she was holding onto when he cold read her earlier.

"Don't tell me what it is, okay?" Jane went on. He closed his eyes and lifted his chin as if in thought. "It's a necklace. A necklace a female gave you before they passed... your _mother_."

"Yes," she squeaked out, holding the box to her chest. "It is."

Her voice was small but held the emotions one expected when speaking of a passed loved one. Even though Jane didn't want to read her anymore, he was in too deep and she was too deeply in with him. He opened his eyes and looked at her, watching the hope and excitement spread over her features. He was sick with himself. He was silent for a minute before his father cleared his throat.

"What else, Paddy?"

"Your mother's necklace... it's a cross, isn't it?"

This wasn't a shot in the dark. Instead, he relied on the fact she looked Catholic, and in his experience, Catholics were very devout in faith and often left crosses as mementos when they passed. The look on her face told him he was right. She nodded her head vigorously and he watched a few tears fall from her eyes.

O_h, God. Don't do that_, he thought. _Don't cry, please._

"Does... does she know about my dad?" she asked in a small voice thick with fresh tears. "Does she know he's suffering?"

There was a silence that could have been cut with a dull knife. His father's face behind her was twisting in a panicked snarl. Jane stood and shook his head. This was enough. He wasn't going to lie to her. He had lied so easily to people before, but this was different. There was something different about her. He didn't know why he felt like this toward someone he didn't know, but the pity and the shame flooded him to a point where he felt he couldn't do it.

"Yes, I am sure she does," he told her finally before walking off the stage and disappearing.

He could hear his father telling the crowd that the show was over and to leave monetary donations with him before they left. Jane walked back to the dressing room area and stood there trying to figure out what happened just then. He had never felt this before. Baiting suckers like that girl was a part of their routine for _years_. Why was he suddenly not so interested in doing it on _this _girl?

"Excuse me?"

He heard her from behind him. He turned and saw her standing there with the box in her hand, holding onto it as if it were the last object on earth and she was entrusted with protecting it. He looked behind her to see if his father was coming, but he didn't see him anywhere. Part of him hoped he would come and push this girl to go home, but a part of him was glad he was seeing her again. As a sixteen-year-old boy, he was aware of things. It wasn't that he was drawn to her because he liked her—he barely _knew_ her. He was drawn to her because he felt a connection to her situation. His dad was mean and sometimes abusive and judging by the way she asked if her mother knew her father was suffering, he suspected the same for her. Their mothers were gone. Her mother was deceased, and his mother abandoned them when Jane was just a baby.

"You can't be back here," he told her, looking back at her.

How stupid. What a stupid thing for him to say. But it was already out of his mouth and he couldn't take it back. She looked as if she had gotten hit by a ton of bricks; her face echoed something between shame and embarrassment. She stuffed the box back in her pocket and backed up from him a few feet.

"No, please," he retracted. "I'm sorry! You just startled me."

She stopped her retreat and spoke the same words as before. "Excuse me..."

Jane waited for her to continue. He knew what she was going to ask before she even did so. They all did. They all wanted to know what he said was true. They always wanted the easy answer, but all he could provide them was fake words and cheap theatricals to sell his cons. He wished he didn't have to lie to this girl, but there was no returning. There was no telling this girl that is was all a sham. She was already broken; no need to break her further.

"Do you think she gave me this," she extracted the box once again, "because she knew I'd need it?"

The girl opened the small box and took out just what Jane had figured was inside: a necklace of gold with a trinket of a cross. It swayed in her hands and Jane was transfixed by the glare of the jewelry. He watched her fingers tighten around the chain and raised his eyes to meet hers, which were wide and wandering.

"She gave it to me before she died, but... was there _significance_ in it?" she asked, holding the necklace out further between them.

He was taken aback by the fact that she wasn't asking the normal questions people would ask him after a show. She was asking for more confirmation. Jane shook his head and started to protest, because lying to her even more was not something he was willing to do. The look on her face was enough to deter him from spewing out some cold readings, not that he needed to work hard for this question.

"I..." he started.

"Please," she begged. "Please! You have a gift. I _know _you do. I can _feel_ it. Please try!"

He reached out and clasped his hands over hers and was going to tell her the truth—that they were crooks and she should believe whatever made her happy when his father came up behind them. Alex Jane put his hand on her shoulder and startled her. Jane let go of her hands quickly, and she hurried up and put the necklace back in its container and shoved it back into her pocket.

"Sorry!" she mumbled before she hurried off and out of sight.

"What did she want? We don't give refunds! I hope you told her that! Little brats don't know good entertainment!" his father bellowed nastily. "Did you tell her to scram?"

Jane didn't answer. Instead, he turned and walked to the dressing area and sat down on an old crate they used as a chair. He wished he had gotten to tell the girl the truth. Sparing her from it seemed cruel. Jane was sick of swindling people in every city they went. It was becoming tiresome and Jane, whether or not his father knew it or cared, had a conscious that ate away at him every time he closed his eyes at night.

"I'm not done with you, boy! You froze up and walked out on the performance. You keep crapping all over the act, there won't _be_ one, anymore!"

_For the best,_ Jane thought. He didn't verbalize it, though.

"Doesn't matter, Paddy!" he exclaimed. "We got a good haul tonight!"

"Are you going to Pete's for poker, then?" Jane asked.

"Aye," he agreed. "I think I am. He's been unlucky lately. I think I can get double—no, _triple _the winnings!" his dad laughed.

He watched his father leave out of the back exit, all the money they conned in his pocket. Jane sighed, reached over and turned on the old hand-radio that his father had repaired many times before. Sifting through the channels, Jane settled on an old station that was pumping out _House of The Rising Sun _through the old speakers. He laughed at the ironic nature of the song to his own life and started singing along about his mom stitching his new blue jeans and wearing that ball and chain.

Yes.

_Fitting song._

**-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

**PRESENT DAY**

They exited out the main doors and into the heat of the Chicago sun. Lisbon held on tight to the white discharge bag the hospital gave her that held the few possessions they found her with, including her gun, identification, the card she was found with and a small black baggie that Jane couldn't see in. Jane held onto her upper bicep as he led her to his car on the southwest side of the hospital.

"I know how to walk on my own, thank you," she snapped, clearly not appreciating his grasp on her arm.

"I'm a mentalist, Ms, Lisbon," he replied. "I know someone who will make a run for it when I see them."

She clicked her tongue, but let him open his car door for her. Once she was safely inside, he shut the door and watched her the entire time as he walked in front of the car and then got in on his side. Starting the engine, he backed out of the lot and made his way onto the highway that branched together on front of it.

"So, Mr. Jane," Lisbon started. "Where are you taking me? I am no psychic, but I suspect it isn't home."

"There are no such thing as psychics," he responded, merging lanes. "Never were."

"Well, thanks for the insight, but where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere that might help you remember things," he told her truthfully. "See what that does."

"Think that will work?"

"I guess we'll see, but from what I know, visiting places you may have had significant impacts can trigger flashes of the past. If anything, that can give us some clues."

"Well..." she trailed off. "That should ease your mind. The card I had on me really spooked you, huh?"

He was silent for another mile before he cleared his throat and turned to her in the passenger seat. She thought he looked impassive; different from the way he looked at the hospital, which was cocky and arrogant. He looked as if he were recalling something from long ago. He was still silent when they turned into a suburban area, winding the narrow streets.

"I haven't seen that card in a very long time," he admitted finally. "It wasn't a great time in my life. The fact that _you_ have it is something that intrigues me."

"Is that Alex Jane your dad?" she asked, reaching down to pull out the card from the bag on her lap. "Paddy is obviously you."

Jane nodded his head and turned back to the road. "It is."

"You guys run some kind of act or something? Like...were you in the circus?"

Jane laughed and shrugged one broad shoulder. "You could say that. It was more of a show than an act. He was the front man, and I was the one bringing them back night after night."

"You sound like you didn't like it or something," she observed, placing the card into the bag again.

"It's complicated and we don't have time for the story right now," said Jane.

"Why not?"

"We're at our first stop," he told her, pulling into an empty lot.

In the small distance between the car and the gate, the faded colors of red and white letters sat idly. They had no doubt seen better days and after years and years of sun exposure and rain, were only a shell of their former selves. The entire lot was now dirt, and all the tents and booths and rides and long been packed up or torn down.

"Looks like a dump," Lisbon commented.

Jane laughed and exited the car, Lisbon right behind him. He couldn't argue with that. It was run down and nearly unrecognizable. He kicked a light bulb from one of the red letters, watching it skitter and shatter against a rock. It has been twenty-five years since he has been back here. It was this very carnival area that Jane had decided he had enough and took off from his father. It was memories that he enjoyed, here. There were other memories he thought of fondly in this spot, but they were buried so deeply that he tried not to think of them that often, anymore.

"Any of this trigger anything?" he asked Lisbon, watching her eyes scan the debris.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Okay, let's try this.." Jane told her. "Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Close your eyes. I am not going to hurt you, I promise."

Lisbon hesitated just a few seconds before closing her eyes. She felt his fingers encapsulate her wrist and raise it up. She felt his other hand against her neck, his two fingers pressing against the vein. The sensation ripped through her like a freight train. This was the third time he had touched her, and the third time her body reacted to the grazing of her flesh.

"You can open your eyes again," he assured her. "Closing your eyes relaxes you and your pulse," he explained.

"What are you going to do?"

Her voice was more interested than annoyed. She was staring right into his eyes as he spoke calmly to her, his voice low and soothing.

"I am going to describe some things and I want to see if you react unconsciously to them. When you respond to something you remember or feel like you remember, your pulse will rise and your blood will begin to pump faster."

"This is a trick of yours?"

"More or less. I find it effective."

"We don't need to do this, Patrick."

"Why is that, Teresa?"

"I remembered something."

* * *

><p><strong>So, we went back to 1985. We know how Jane knows Lisbon, now. But why does he not recognize her? <strong>

**The song Jane listens to on the radio in the tent is _"House of the Rising Sun"_ and is performed by The Animals.**

**I do not own the Mentalist or anything related.**


	3. Keep The Memory Burning

CHAPTER THREE: KEEP THE MEMORY BURNING

PRESENT DAY

He frowned at her, but did not let his hands drop from her. His fingers danced across her throat and held steady against the vein, making sure his instincts were correct. His eyes scanned hers and he watched her mouth uptick slightly at its corners, indicating she was trying to contain a smile.

"You can't lie to a liar," he told her, his eyes boring into hers. "Your lips twitch when you lie. Did you know that?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at him and waited for him to continue. The pressure of his fingers on the skin of her neck sent a shiver down her spine. It was the same feelings as when he touched her the other times. The touch seemed familiar to her, but she just blanked out when she tried to remember _how_ it was familiar.

"Do you remember this place?" he asked her, the slow draw of his voice relaxing her narrowed eyes. "Is anything familiar here?"

Lisbon tried to look around by turning her head, but Jane shook his head. "No. Look at me, Teresa."

"How do I know if I can't even look around to see?" she shot back.

"The trick is the response to my questions. It's how it works. Please," he told her, his thumb ghosting under her chin. "Yes or no."

"No," she replied in annoyance. "I don't."

"Did you know that mood swings are part of Post-Traumatic Amnesia?" replied Jane in amusement.

"I'm not moody!"

"Next question," Jane responded, ignoring her indignation of his observation. "Do you remember Alex Jane or myself, Patrick Jane?"

There was a moment of flickering in her eyes. It wasn't a moment of remembrance, but more willing herself to have a memory about it at all. But, just as the flicker had come, it had gone. She shook her head at him slowly and shrugged. He felt nothing from under his fingers from her neck and sighed.

"No. I'm sorry."

"I didn't really expect you to," he told her. "This kind of Amnesia can last a while."

"How do you know?" she asked out of curiosity.

He dropped his fingers from her neck and dropped her wrist, stepping back and shrugging his shoulders. He had met lots of people in his professional field that had lost their minds or memories and had sought out his talents to get them back or longed to remember something they thought lost forever. He had a talent for getting them back... or letting them _believe_ he could. He had played the part of false healer many, many times. Still did.

"You could say it's in my job description," he replied. "We just need to find the right trigger."

Lisbon watched him as his eyes fell to the battered old letters on the ground. She saw familiarity in his face, but also sadness and wistful memories he was reliving in his mind. She didn't remember this place, but he did.

"Were you here before?" she inquired, throwing him out of his wistfulness. "You look like you remember this place."

He didn't answer her. Instead, he looked at her and pursed his lips. She thought it amazing how he could be quiet and reflective in one moment, and serious and hard in the next. It was probably a great talent of his, she thought. One he practiced often. He didn't go into details about what he did, or why he was so interested in her or the card she held, but she had a feeling he wasn't telling her something. Why was he doing all this over some silly card from decades before? For now, she would allow him to be evasive. Soon, though, she would need answers.

"We better go," he told her, turning back toward the car. "No use standing around. Your memory isn't going to come back this way."

"You're going to take me home?" she asked, following him.

He didn't bother answering. Opening the door, he got in and waited for her to do the same. Once he saw that she was safely inside and her seat belt was done up, he started the engine and pulled out of his old stomping grounds. He kept his eyes on the road as Lisbon dug into the bag in front of her and produced her identification.

"What are you doing?" Jane asked her, glancing over at the shuffling sound of her hospital bag.

"You're taking me home. This has my address on it."

"I'm not taking you home," he assured her.

"Where else is there for me to go?" asked Lisbon in panic.

He chuckled darkly. "You have amnesia, Teresa. You shouldn't be alone. Common side effects of PTA is headaches, dizziness and blackouts, and I can't have that on my conscience if something were to happen. Besides, I have a feeling that if I leave you there alone, you'll take off and I will never get my answers."

"_Your _answers?"

He saw her throw her identification card back in the bag and sit back in the seat, her arms crossed defiantly across her chest. He smiled at her child-like behavior and looked on at the long stretch of road in front of him once more.

"Where are you taking me? Back to the hospital?"

"No," he said. "I have a house that I use when I have shows in the area," he explained. "I know you don't know me that well, but I think it's for the best if you stayed with me until we figure this out."

"Shows?"

"Yeah..."

"You do your psychic thing for people?"

He nodded his head and shrugged. "It's what I do. It's how I make a living."

"And you want me to stay with you? What about your shows?" she asked. "I mean, it's not like I have a choice in the matter. You've obviously made up your mind where you're taking me."

"I won't kill you, I promise," he laughed. "It's for your own good. I canceled my shows for this week. I called while you were getting dressed to be discharged."

They were silent for a few miles before Lisbon spoke again. This time, her voice was soft and low.

"What were you remembering back there?" she asked him. "You looked very sad for those few moments."

He turned off the road that blended into a long, winding driveway with trees on the either side that casted dark shadows from the sun. He sighed and cleared his throat.

"Not trying to remember," he responded. "I was trying to_ forget_."

**-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

CHICAGO, 1985

The next day was even hotter than the day before. Jane took to setting up the room in the back, his calloused fingers draping the black tablecloth over the wooden table. Tonight, they would be doing a 'faith' healing. After the main show, they would draw in one lone, sick sucker to bleed dry with talks of healing stones and mystically mental healing. The score would be huge, no doubt, and it would be another notch on Alex Jane's belt of conquests. Jane, however, wasn't interested in that at the moment. His attention had been on the brunette girl in the audience since she had taken off in a hurry last night.

His particular interest was in the way she held onto the very thing that connected her to her mother and how she had sought out his validation. Of course, there was also the fact he was drawn to her. He was drawn to her innocence and the obvious difficult nature of her daily life. He was drawn to the pureness and honesty that she held. It was completely different from himself, except for the difficult nature of daily life. His own life wasn't entirely easy; the acts they did were often forced by his father. The tricks and frauds were Alex Jane's ideas. But, in retrospect, it is all Jane knew in his life. Lies and deceit. The fact that this young girl was still innocent and pure and honest and good in her difficult childhood interested him.

"You finished yet, boy?" his father asked him, walking into the back room and looking around. "Tonight is a particularly big score. Everything has to be properly set."

Jane nodded his head and fixed the tablecloth so that it was straight on the table. "Yeah. I think so."

"You can't think so, Paddy. That doesn't rake in the dough," he told his son. "You be sure, now."

Alex Jane left his son to finish setting up. Jane shook his head and frowned at his father's back. The sounds from outside the tent roared on as he made sure everything was in place. He listened to the people laughing, the food cooking and the rides coming alive and wished he was able to enjoy himself. Instead, he was setting a candle in the center of the table and making sure the magnet affixed to the underside of wood table still worked. He took a penny from his pocket and set it on the table, using his finger to trip the magnet under the table. He moved the magnet along the wire holdings and smiled to himself as the penny seemed to float across the table without help. This would be to prove his "skills" to the wallet-holders.

"I still got it," he laughed to himself, turning from the table and exiting the room.

He still had the show to do. This was easy compared to a one-on-one viewing. He walked up to the curtain as he did every night, and glanced at the crowd gathering inside. His eyes were zipping off people who were easy to cold read. He was hoping that his eyes would find a pair of deep green eyes filled with hope and need. He was actually disappointed when he didn't see her in the crowd. He really didn't expect her to come back, did he? If he were her, he'd not come back here. But then he had sensed resilience in her. Perhaps he was just willing her to be, instead.

The show was underway forty-five minutes later. Jane—as his routine called for it—was blindfolded as sitting on a stool on the stage. The lights glaringly hot on his skin, he did his readings on the usual prey. Reading the serial numbers on dollar bills in their pockets or guessing their names. Easy. It was near the end of the show when he heard the shuffle of the tent flap and the scuttle of shoes on the straw floor.

"Hurry up, girl! You're holding up the show!" he heard his father say in disparage. "Find a seat and _sit down_!"

"Sorry!" the voice whispered.

Her voice. _The girl with the golden cross_.

"Where were we, Paddy?" Alex asked. "Right. What am I holding in my hand?"

Jane's mind went blank as he had unintentionally broken his thought process. After a few seconds of silence, Jane once again pulled himself back into the show and correctly guessed the silver lighter in his father's hand. As the applause flew up and the cash started to fill the container his father passed around, Jane removed his blindfold and looked around for her. He was dismayed when his eyes didn't locate her. Perhaps he had thought someone else was her? But he would never forget that small voice of hers. Maybe she left, which would be the best thing for them both. Even though it would be best, he couldn't help but feel the disappointment that the girl for whom he didn't even know her name didn't stick around.

"Good job, Paddy boy," Alex told him, coming up on stage with a container full of cash. "Not a bad night, but we have the big cash cow in half an hour. Let's reel in this big fish and gut it of its presidents."

He watched his father as he clapped him on the shoulder and walked toward the trailer out back where they slept when not in the tent doing shows. He knew his father would probably go back there and sneak a few shots of whiskey before he had to assist Jane.

"Yeah. Sure," Jane replied under his breath.

He turned and was heading for the area in which he prepped himself and the props he would need to sell to the unfortunate people when he ran smack into her, sending the open red box she had in her hands sprawling on the ground, the golden cross flinging across the dirt floor. He steadied her with his hands on her upper arms and followed her gaze all over the floor frantically searching for the dropped memento.

"I'm so sorry!" he said automatically, letting go of her arms and getting on his knees to wipe away straw to locate her necklace.

"No," she replied, falling to her knees and helping him to look. "I shouldn't have stood so close. Sorry." She raised her head and smiled a small smile.

He looked up at her with the intention of rebuffing her apology, but stopped when he noticed a bruise on her cheek and a cut on her upper lip. He narrowed his eyes and raked them over the bruise on her cheek, which was fresh, as was the cut on her lip. She lowered her head again and continued to shuffle the straw.

"What happened to your face?" he asked her, reaching out and tilting her chin up so he could see her face again. "Did your father do this to you?"

She didn't answer. She simply shook off his hand and bent her head again. He knew all too well how she got those bruises. There was anger inside of him. Who would strike an innocent girl leaving marks on her skin for all to see? He didn't question it further. Her shake-off was a clue that this wasn't something she wanted to discuss. Finally, underneath the crate he used as a chair, he found the gold cross.

"Found it," he said, holding up the cross for her to see. "I don't think it's broken."

He looked over the cross, which was still in pristine condition. The chain, however, was broken in once place; just above the clasp. He folded the broken bit across his hand and examined it. He could see her watching him closely from the corner of his eye. She was almost trying to assess him.

"Well," he told her, holding out his palm with the necklace in it. "Actually, the chain is broken, here. I think I can fix it."

"Oh, no!" she said, her face crumpling. "I broke it!"

"No, no! Listen! I can fix it," he assured her. "Please don't cry! I will fix it."

She handed over the red box, and Jane placed it delicately inside, closing the lid and sitting it on the dressing table beside them. He could fix it, he just didn't have time to do it now. He suspected she might react to having to wait, but he supposed she would allow him to fix her precious object nonetheless. He explained to her that he had a show in thirty minutes, but that he would come back and fix it for her. She agreed hesitantly.

"I'm sorry if I bothered you," she started. "I just wanted you to tell me what I asked yesterday. Please."

He didn't relish this next part, but he felt it was only fair. He wouldn't do it here, though. God only knew who could come back through the curtain from the stage and hear him call his entire act, himself and his father a fraud who steals the hope and dreams and money of the poor, sick and hopeful. He sighed and tilted his head.

"What's your name?" he asked. "My name is Patrick. Paddy is for the show."

"Teresa," she replied softly. "Teresa Lisbon."

"Well, Teresa, follow me," he told her. "Teresa..." he repeated. "That's a nice name."

"Where?"

"I'll show you," he assured her. "Come on."

He passed her and led her to the back of the tent, where a flap was zippered shut. Jane bent down and unzipped the flap partially, stepping aside so that Teresa (he was glad he had a name to call her, now) could step through it. He followed her and turned to re-zip the flap. He turned and heard her gasp. He smiled and went to join her.

In the distance, you could see the lights of the valley below. It was as if a thousand lightning bugs were flying below them. The carnival spot had that great advantage of having a view like that. There was a long fence separating them from the steep drop below. Jane walked to the fence and leaned on the pickets, stealing a glance at Teresa, who looked as if she had never seen this kind of thing before. Sadly, she probably never had.

"It's so beautiful," she whispered.

"Yes," he told her.

There were a few moments of silence before he cleared his throat and turned to her. She looked deep in thought, but he felt a direct approach would be better than dragging it out. She turned to him, her face falling in the lights of the carnival behind them, and he forgot all about telling her he was a shame. Instead, his mind went back to the bruises on her face.

"Did he do that to you, Teresa?" he asked her. "The cut, too?"

"He didn't mean it," she replied slowly. "It's okay."

"It's not okay," he answered back. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

"My brothers get it worse," she shrugged. "Could be worse."

He didn't want to press her, so he moved on.

"The necklace... she gave it to you before she died?"

She nodded her head. "A few days before she was killed."

Jane felt curiosity peak, even though he knew he had no right to pry. He inhaled sharply and then was going to ask her what happened when Teresa answered that for him.

"She was a nurse," she explained. "She left for work before we even got up for school. She worked the late shift. One night, about a month ago, on her way to work, she was hit by a drunk driver and was killed instantly."

"Sorry," he said truthfully. He hesitated. Then: "You know they don't really leave you alone when they die."

"I know," she acknowledged softly. "The necklace keeps her close."

"It means a lot to you, doesn't it? The necklace?"

He already knew it did, but he could tell she loved to talk about the necklace. She associated fond memories with her mother. It had a good physiological effect on her.

"Yes. It does. The only thing I really have left of her," she stated sadly.

He could see that she unconsciously went to retrieve the box from her jeans pocket, but remembered it was in Jane's tent at the last minute. He looked at her in the quiet night; the sounds of the carnival dying down as the rides and vendors packed up for the night. She was clinging onto hope by a thread... a gold thread. He knew in that instant that he couldn't let her down. If he had to lie to her to keep that hope floating, then so be it. At least he wasn't conning her out of her money. Though he couldn't say conning her out of her hope was any easier.

"Why do you not wear it around your neck, Teresa? I mean, if it means a lot, shouldn't you _wear _it?" he asked her, not unkindly. "Keeping it in a box just provides a barrier from her memory to your heart."

"I'm afraid my dad might break it," she explained. "He isn't taking it well. He drinks..." she trailed off.

"Don't let anyone stop you from keeping the memory burning, Teresa."

She turned to him and gave him a small nod. "You think she knows he's suffering?"

"Giving you a cross to bare, in all its literal sense, was no coincidence," he told her. "She knows. She thought it would provide strength... support," he added. Truth was, it was just coincidence. People who said there were no such things as coincidence never backed up that theory with facts. Simple truth of the matter was her mother had given her the necklace just like many women pass down items in their families. It was meant to be cherished by generations. Tragedy had other plans for it.

"She gave it to me to be strong for him and my brothers! I knew it! I knew there was a reason she gave it to me!"

Jane hated himself. He nearly recoiled at his own lies. Lies he had come to believe, as much as he told them. He lied to this girl to give her hope; something to cling to when everything else around her went dark. Her dad beating her and her brothers, the loss of her mother... he sold her hope. False hope. One day, she will realize that what she was told here tonight was fake and dishonest. He couldn't change what he said now, and he wasn't sure he would judging from the smile she gave him. She was happy to know this. It seemed to fill her with gladness.

"You truly do have a gift," she went on. "I knew when I saw you that you were different. Very different from your father. He's hard and inconsiderate. You are gentle and caring," she explained. "Almost not even related."

"We are but one side of the coin," Jane replied. "He just tends to desire different things."

"Where is your mother?" she asked. Immediately, she covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head. "I'm...I'm sorry! I didn't mean to be so nosy."

Jane shrugged his broad shoulders and put his hands in his pockets. "That's a loaded question, Teresa."

"Did she die, too?"

Jane shook his head and sighed.

"Up and took off when I was ten," he told her. "I guess she got tired of my dad..."

He almost told her that his mother got tired of her husband's greed and dishonesty. He stopped and clicked his tongue.

"I don't really know where she is," he continued. "She abandoned me. It's just me and the old man, now."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. There is only so much a person can be dealt before they fold like a deck of cards," he explained. "Life is overrated. You'll learn that as you get older."

He watched as Teresa looked down at the watch on her wrist and nearly gasped in despair. She looked up at Jane and the fear in her face was intense. He read the situation as she was expected to be home at a certain time, or else face the wrath of her probably skunk-drunk father.

"I have to go! I should have been home twenty minutes ago! I have to get my brothers to bed," she explained, turning on her heels quickly. "Thanks for everything, Patrick!"

"Wait!" he called out.

He dug in his jeans pocket and pulled out a white business card that his father insisted he always have on him. He thrusted the card into her hand. She looked at the card and tucked it in her jeans pocket.

"Come back here tomorrow for your necklace," he told her. "I'll have it fixed by then. We're here for another two days."

"Thank you, Jane," she smiled at him and then stepped forward to give him a hug. "I better go."

He watched her leave around the tent, disappearing into the darkness of the grounds. He stood there for a few minutes deciding if the conversation he just had with Teresa Lisbon actually cured his intrigue about her. He quickly realized that it did not. He was still very curious about the girl. He supposed he had a few days left to find out more about her. One thing was for sure: he had to keep what she knew about him to a minimum.

He turned himself around and walked back through the flap, closing it up behind him. He walked past the dressing area and into the room where they were to do their one-on-one. Instead of finding it with a client and his father inside, it was dark and quiet. He was about to turn away from the room when he heard a voice from the shadows.

"You _missed_ it, boy," his father said, standing and flicking the lamp on in the center of the table, illuminating the room. "I had to tell them we couldn't do it tonight."

"I... what _time_ is it? I must have lost track of time."

His father walked slowly up to Jane and shrugged. "You're about forty minutes late, son."

"You didn't do it yourself?" Jane inquired.

"The trick doesn't work without you, boy," he said, lifting his hand and bringing it across Jane's face in a back-hander. "You know how much you cost us tonight?"

Jane felt and tasted the copper of his blood. He reached up and wiped it from the corner of his mouth. Again, he felt his father's stinging hand wrap around the side of his neck and jerk him forward violently. He could smell whiskey on his breath and knew he was sitting here getting drunker and madder the more his son was late.

"I'm sorry," he pleaded. "I didn't mean to!"

"You're going to make up our lost revenue, Paddy," he laughed and then burped. "You are going to make it up big time!"

"How? How am I supposed to make it up? You take _all _the money and don't give me _any_ of it! You gamble it away!"

Another slap across Jane's face sent him spinning backward, his balance sending him to the ground. He felt his nose bleeding, the blood dripping down onto his shirt and hands, and the straw on the floor cling to his clothing and hair.

"For starters," his father said, holding up something in his hands. "You're going to hock this thing here. It's real... should bring in some good cash if you deal with the right people. Even broken."

Jane's pain melted away into horror instantly as he realized what his father was holding in his hands.

The golden cross swung and the light danced off it as it went to and from. Jane made a sound to protest, but his father was already moving past him. The golden cross – the one that belonged to Teresa Lisbon – was secured in his fist as he went.

**-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

PRESENT DAY

The house was a large, open wooden cabin that seemed to stretch on. On either side of the house, there were big trees that shaded the house from the brunt of the Chicago sun. He parked the car in front, and pointed to the house with his index finger.

"Here we are," he said. "Home sweet home for the time being."

He watched her from the corner of his eye as she gazed up at the grand structure. He took the keys from the ignition and opened the car door, with Lisbon mimicking him by opening hers. He watched her grab her hospital bag and step out of the car.

"It's huge," she commented. "You only live here some of the time?"

"When I am in town. Yes."

"Wow. Who knew being psychic got you these kinds of digs," she smiled at him. "It's really nice."

He smiled back at her and walked around the car to the front double doors. He could feel her behind him as he opened the door and moved aside so she could enter. The inside of the house was even larger than she imagined. There was a grand foyer, in which they found themselves. The tiled floor reflecting the grand chandelier in its glossy surface; a large room off to the right that Lisbon could only imagine was a living area, and a big, open, rustic kitchen that stretched on the other side. She also noticed a wooden staircase on the right-hand side that led upstairs to the bathroom and bedrooms, she imagined.

"You can take any room you like," he told her, walking forward and turning to face her. "The bathroom is on the left side of the hall up there. Use whatever you need."

When he was staring at her like that, she couldn't concentrate. His blue eyes twinkled into her green ones, causing her to remain rooted to the spot. She trapped her lip between her teeth and just stared at him.

"But you can do that later, if you want..." he trailed off, wondering if he was being too pushy. He just thought she would want to relax after everything she went through. Also, he knew that relaxed people tended to remember things better.

"Oh," she responded, a little embarrassed. "No. Right. Shower."

"I think everything you need is already there, Teresa," he told her. "I'll be down here if you need me."

"Okay."

He watched her quietly ascend the stairs and heard the door to the bathroom close behind her. He turned and walked into a few steps before he heard the loud thump from above. At first, he thought it was her moving around up there. He waited another minute before deciding to call up to her.

"Teresa?"

No answer.

"Teresa?"

When he got no answer the second time, Jane started up the steps, stopping in front of the closed bathroom door. He knocked on the door but got no answer.

"Teresa? Are you alright in there?"

When she didn't answer this time, he opened the door and hit something solid. Looking down, he could see the door pressing up against Lisbon's body, which was sprawled out on the tile floor. Jane had to gently push the door open further before he could slip in. Kneeling down beside her, he placed his hands under her head and looked at her face. She had blacked out and fell.

"It's okay, Teresa," he soothed. "It's okay."

Jane stood and bent down to lift Lisbon into his arms. Kicking open the door, Jane carried her down to the bedroom. She was warm against his body. Her slender frame was vulnerable in her unmoving state. He gently placed her on the bed and turned her on her side, picking the afghan on the bottom of the bed and draping it over her.

He looked at her one last time before turning and exiting the room, shutting the bedroom door behind him. He walked past the bathroom at first but doubled back when he saw that her hospital bag had spilled and the contents were all over the floor. Jane knelt and started to place her items back in the bag when something caught his attention: a red box whose lid had come off. He reached for the box and was shocked to see a golden cross underneath.

Jane's head snapped up and recognition hit him. It was_ her_. That was his strange connection to her. The one person he tried so hard to forget... to force out of his mind palace.

_It was the girl from the carnival._

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading. <strong>

**I do not own The Mentalist or its characters.**


	4. Nothing Like You

CHAPTER FOUR: NOTHING LIKE YOU

PRESENT DAY

He checked in on her several times in the forty-five minutes since she had blacked out in his bathroom. He walked up to her lying in the bed and fixed the afghan around her shoulders, feeling her brunette hair brush his fingers softly. He brushed his fingers across her cheek and could see the flesh blush under her porcelain complexion. He didn't know why he was doing it, but it comforted him a little. He had picked up her things and placed them back in the bag in between checking on her. He'd sat the bag on the dresser in the room and exited, leaving the door ajar. Leaning up against the wall outside her room, he thought back to the time he had met her. Young and full of hope, she had left an indelible mark on him. The belief of an innocent girl had created empathy and guilt; had eradicated his belief that every person deserved to be taken advantage of. This mark, for all its power, had been deliberately pushed out of his mind and never thought about for more than twenty years. The girl with the cross had become nothing more than dust and ash in his mind. The name, memories and anything associated faded into the part of his mind that held the obscure. It's why he didn't recognize her looks, only that her green eyes held something he found alluring and familiar. Nobody likes to remember the wickedness they make the important suffer. His father, for everything that man was, had been right. The important things in life get lost in the unimportant fodder. He always said, _"Paddy, boy, you always will crave the constants. Soon as something goes away, you won't care about it anymore." _Of course, he was speaking about the guilt Jane would feel as he emptied the pockets of the unknowing carnival-goers, and the constant being the money rolling in. It still rang true, though, for just about anything in his life that wasn't concrete.

The cross brought it all back for him. He could place her now: the connection he felt to her before was just a familiarity. This was something _much_ more. He had actual memories flowing through his mind. The night she had come to his show and he had read her... the night she had trusted him with her cross and he had let her down... the time - _no_! He wouldn't think about it. He had resolved himself to forgetting it, and he wasn't about to pull it up again. She had grown up well, though. Her green eyes and brunette hair looked better on a grown woman. The freckles across her skin had darkened from what he remembered. What was he even saying? He wasn't attracted to her! …_Was he_? No. It was just the emotion in him of seeing the girl from the carnival twenty-five years later. He shook his head furtively.

"Mmmm," a soft moan floated through the slightly open door. Lisbon was waking up. "Patrick?"

"Teresa," he whispered her name. It felt good to say now that he had the memories to attach with it. It was like scratching an itch.

He turned to enter the room but was startled to find her standing at the door with her hand on the side of her head. She had a small gash on her forehead at her hairline, and she looked as if she were fighting the urge to pass out again. She reached her free hand to hold onto the door jamb as she closed her eyes for a minute, opening them slowly and raising her eyes to look at him.

"Teresa," he called out softly. "Are you all right?"

_Some things never change_, he thought in amusement. Scaring him was something she had done back then, too. It was one of his favorite memories of her. The memories, now that they were triggered, would keep coming. They'd insert themselves into everything he said or did with her now; the question he should have been asking himself right now was if he was going to tell her how he knew her and the whole truth. He already knew the answer to that question. That truth he held. The whole, sad, _terrible_ truth.

"What happened? Did I faint?" she asked, a questioning, penetrating gaze drilling into him. "I feel disoriented."

"You blacked out, Teresa," he told her patiently. "The woozy feeling is normal. It'll fade. I promise."

His eyes left hers only to trace her cheekbone up to the small gash on her forehead above her eye. He gently reached out and took her hand off the door jamb and held on as she tried to pull it back. He smiled a little at her try at rejection. The frown on her face dipped her lips into a pout and her eyebrows furrowed at his insistence.

"Trust me," he asked of her. "I want to help."

She didn't resist as he took her by the hand and led her down to the bathroom in which she had been sprawled almost an hour before. He opened the door and guided her inside, letting go of her hand as she stood in front of the sink. Jane reached over into the medicine cabinet and retrieved some alcohol and a cotton ball, placing them on the counter before reaching for the band-aids. He could feel her eyes on him as he collected them, trying to decide what to make of what he was doing. He didn't blame her. A stranger (at least for all she knew) had dragged her to the bathroom of his expansive house and was going to be showing her impromptu medical attention.

"It might burn," he told her, pouring a little alcohol onto the cotton. "I'm very sorry in advance."

He lifted the alcohol soaked piece of material to her forehead, dabbing gently. She winced and moved her head slightly in response to the burning sensation ripping through the wound. Jane, in automatic response to her movement, brought his free hand up and held her chin so that her head stayed stationary. The touch was incredibly powerful. It was almost as if a tingle went through his fingers at the feel of her warm flesh. He almost stepped back and dropped her chin because this was ludicrous. He didn't feel anything for her. He had known her as a boy, she had shaped him into a lot of things in her small appearance in his life. But, these things he kept feeling when he looked at her or touched her, had since magnified in their adult life. His memory being triggered by the cross didn't help.

Instead of dropping her chin, he focused on treating the gash, taking his eyes from hers and playing doctor. He felt himself standing very close to her, so when he moved to open the band-aid, he shifted his weight to the side so that he was up against the sink base. He dropped his hand from her chin, applied the bandage, and turned to throw the cotton ball and paper into the trash when she spoke.

"Did you carry me to the bedroom?" she asked, her curiosity unable to contain itself. "I mean, obviously you _did_. It's just blurry what happened."

He turned back to her and nodded his head. "Blurred moments before blacking out are common. Yes. I did. The floor would have been icy and hard on your back."

At that, she smiled. He couldn't help but smile, too. He took the time look at her mouth. Particularly, the way her mouth was shaped and how her teeth set nicely inside. She had the same smile as he remembered, the upper lip curling so that her cheeks nearly met her eyes. He stepped back from the sink and cleared his throat, bringing his eyes to hers slowly.

"All fixed up," he told her. "I put your things in your room for you. You are still welcome to take a shower. I think you'll be okay now."

She nodded her head. A shower sounded good to her, he thought. He also hadn't thought that she didn't have any other clothes than those that were on her back. Jane turned and walked to the door before turning back to her.

"If you need something to wear temporarily, there are some shirts in the upper dresser drawer of the room you were in. They might be good for now. There is also extra combs and an extra toothbrush in the medicine chest behind you," he offered her. "If you want, that is."

He didn't wait for her reply. He strode out of the bathroom, pulling the door nearly shut before hearing her voice soft as the cotton he just threw away.

"Thank You, Patrick."

He shut the door the whole way and walked down to his own bedroom, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He walked over to the small night table beside the bed and pulled open the drawer. He reached down and pulled something out, closing the drawer and sitting on the edge of the bed, the object sitting between his hands as he stared at it. He sighed and turned it over and over in his hands.

"It's better for you this way," he said under his breath. "You wouldn't want them back."

He took the red box with the golden cross inside and put it back in the night side table and stood. If it triggered _his_ memory of _her_, he knew it would trigger _her _memory of _him_. And, as he very well knew, he didn't want that to happen. It was better this way. It was better off in his possession. When he had picked up her things that spilled on the bathroom floor, he had gathered all of it and returned it to her. All of it except the golden cross in the red box.

Some things were better left forgotten. If he had to, he would keep her from the memories with the tricks he was supposed to use to get them back. With one last look, he slammed the drawer closed and walked out of his room and away from the very thing he knew would get her to remember.

**-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

CHICAGO, 1985

He put the terry cloth under the tap and turned on the faucet until the cloth got lukewarm. Lifting it to his split lip, he winced and slunk down against the trailer's bathroom wall. He wasn't worried about the abuse he just took. He was worried about Teresa Lisbon's necklace and how he was going to get it back before his father sold it for the cash. His father would never allow him to sell it himself because he knew Jane would take it and give it back. Even though he had told Jane that he wanted his son to see to the cross, he knew his father would never allow Jane to see it indistinct cross meant nothing to Alex Jane. It would be a profit for his nightly poker game with Pete Barsocky, and there was no way he would show empathy to a little girl whose mother's last gift was in his fat, greasy hands. Jane kicked the wall opposite with his shoe and threw the cloth to the ground in revulsion and hatred for his misanthropical father.

Sharing something in common with Teresa's own hard, young life _should_ have been something he found joy in. The common thing between them wasn't pleasant, and there was nothing joyous to be gained. Their parents, who were supposed to protect and nurture them, only gave them pain. He saw the bruises on her face and he knew what caused them all too well. He put a hand to his sore lip unconsciously and was rewarded with the tingle of pain. She was coming back tomorrow for her necklace; the one she treasured more than anything in the world. The one he promised her he'd fix. How was he going to tell her he lost her necklace? Would he even tell her? He sat there for what seemed like an hour and thought of ways to get it back.

Jane could hear his father calling for him to close the tent up and turn off the lights used to illuminate the outside portions of their space. His voice wavered in his drunken stupor, but Jane was relieved to know that he had not gone to Pete's tonight. That meant he still had her cross. There was still time to get it back somehow. Jane stood and exited the bathroom, turning down the trailer and walking the short distance to the tent. He saw his dad standing on the stage looking at the empty chairs with his alcohol-glazed eyes. When he saw Jane enter, his eyes darted to his son, and a smile played on his lips.

"We can still fill these seats, Paddy," he told him, gesturing a wide hand at the emptiness. "We still got it."

_You don't have it,_ he thought bitterly. _I am the one bringing them back night after night._

Jane turned to scowl at his father, and it was then that Jane knew exactly what he was going to do about the missing cross and how to get it back. It was like a lightbulb going on. His father didn't know it, but he had just given Jane the very leverage he needed to bargain for the cross back. Jane had thought about sneaking around and trying to steal it after his dad passed out drunk, or even ask Sam to talk Pete into giving it back should he have used it and lost it in a poker game, but this was much more fitting and much more likely to actually work. His dad was too smart for those tactics. Jane smiled at his father; a big, broadening smile.

"What are you smiling at, boy?" his father asked nastily. "I still got this."

He pulled the cross from his jeans pocket and let it dangle back and forth.

Jane only smiled wider. "_I _still got it, you mean."

His father knew he didn't mean the cross. His father shoved the cross back into his pocket and hopped off the stage clumsily, walking to his son and grabbing him by the front of his shirt with his fist. Alex Jane was a lot of things, but the man wasn't stupid. He knew an imposition when he heard one.

"You'd risk it all for a piece of crap_ necklace_?" he asked, his whiskey-soaked breath hitting Jane in the face and making his nose crinkle. "You'd spill your guts for a goddamn _girl_?"

"Yes." He didn't hesitate. "Give it back and I won't tell anyone who has ears what we _really _are."

"Don't you threaten _me_, boy! This is... is... _our_ livelihood," he told his son, swaying slightly. "The bread and butter that puts food on the table and clothes on your back!"

"Then you'd want to protect that, right?" Jane shot back. "Just give the cross back to me. It's not ours."

"What do you care? You lied to her, son. You lied about this," said his father, tapping his pocket. "So you are the one who made it mean something to her. And now you can make it mean nothing."

"This is exactly why mom abandoned us. Because of you! You drove her away from us because you chose this life over a normal, honest one. I won't chose your way, this time. I can't do that."

His father chose to ignore any mention of his long gone wife. There was no time for someone who didn't help him gain advantages over the suffering of others. Jane's mother was never a topic Alex Jane wanted to discuss.

"You are just _like_ me, boy. Whether or not you think so. You... selling people hope like it's some kind of miracle cure. Thinking you can still be saved even after you suck every last dime from someone who is dying. You have to be careful who you sell it to, son. You might just end up getting bit in the end."

Alex Jane let go of his son's shirt and pushed him backward. Jane gained his balance and waited as his father stared at him, swaying gently to an unknown breeze. Finally, he dug in his pocket and threw the cross to the ground, kicking it across the dirty floor in front of Jane.

"Don't you _ever _threaten me with this again, Patrick. You remember where you come from. Remember that you are just as deceitful and distrustful and just as much a fraud as I am. Don't you forget that, Paddy. Not ever."

"I'm nothing like you," Patrick responded scathingly. "Nothing."

"Yes, you are. You remember what you are telling her when you hand her that back. You watch the lies you tell her, because she's going to find out how much of a circus act you really are some day."

He turned and strode out of the stage area, staggering into chairs as he went. When he was finally out of sight, Jane reached down and picked up the cross, brushing off the dirt and straw from it. It was scuffed up from his father's pocket and the floor, but still in fairly decent shape, apart from the broken chain. Delicately, he folded it and put it in his pocket. He would have smiled that he got the cross back, but what his father had told him bothered him. Even though Jane had said he wasn't anything like his dad, he knew that wasn't true. He was like Alex Jane. He was a liar and a thief and he was defined by the thievery. It's all he knew. This strange compassion that he felt for Teresa Lisbon was different. He hadn't met anyone who mirrored his situation and was still a clean soul.

"I'm _nothing _like you," he whispered again under his breath. He was trying to convince himself, he knew. "Nothing."

In the back of his mind, however, the song from the other night from the tent radio continued to play the specific line that described him so well:

_Oh mother tell your children__  
><em>_Not to do what I have done__  
><em>_Spend your lives in sin and misery__  
><em>_In the House of the Rising Sun_

**-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

PRESENT DAY

He smelled her before he saw her. The Sandalwood shampoo was pungent to his nostrils as he watched her wind her way down the stairs. His eyes fell to her bare feet, up her bare ankles and legs to the hem of one of his blue striped shirts. It came to just above her knees, and it was big on her, while keeping the curve of her body noticeable with every stride she made toward him.

Her hair was still damp, and her hair was frizzy. It made a cascade around her shoulders and accentuated the dark freckles on her nose. His eyes fell to her bare throat and he turned away from her. He didn't want to linger too much. His mind was too active when he did so. He wouldn't allow himself to think about such things. He couldn't think about her that way. At least...

"I hope you find that comfortable," he told her. "I usually wear those under my vests."

"It's fine, thank you," she replied.

He nodded his head and continued reading the book he held in his hand. In his line of work, he was never home much and didn't own a television. He spent a lot of his time reading books about Mentalism and philosophical theories and doctrines. Basically, he was learning more ways to fraud people. Some things never changed. He never expected them to. Not even after leaving his father's rule. It was all he knew. The compassion he once had no longer an option once he set out on his own. The only thing he had was his skills taught to him by his corrupt parent.

"What are you reading?" she asked, trying to read his book by tilting her head.

"Nothing interesting," he told her, closing the book and setting it on the table beside him. "Work stuff."

She sat down on the chair across from him and crossed her legs. It was clearly a distraction to him, but if she noticed, she didn't say anything. Instead, she looked around at her surroundings. The big living area, in which they were seated, seemed to go on for a while. The openness seemed to draw her interest. He tore his eyes from her and followed her gaze. Her eyes probed and prodded the room, taking in everything. He didn't have to be a mentalist or psychic to figure out what was going on in her mind.

"You do well doing your psychic thing," she commented finally. "I'm sorry you had to cancel your shows because of me. Might have to let the maid go." She chuckled and folded her hands on her lap.

"Don't be sorry," he replied, shaking his head. "More important things came up."

"What— What is it that you _do_, exactly?" she asked, playing with the hem of her shirt. "I mean... do you predict futures or what?"

He chuckled at that. Her curiosity was peaked. It was innocent, for now. But how long would that innocence become wanting to know hard truths? She was becoming comfortable with asking him things about himself, and it was dangerous territory if he wanted to keep his connection to her to himself.

"Sometimes," he answered. He wouldn't give her anything concrete. He wouldn't allow her to dig too much into himself. That always led to digging up his past. "All depends who I'm reading." _And how much they pay me._

There was a long silence. He watched her eyes search his. It was almost as if she was feeling her own connection to him. There seemed to be a spark of recognition in her features, but one she couldn't get through the murky blackness in her head. Could she be trying to remember how she knew him? Is that why her eyes were pressing into his blue ones, and her lip trapped between her teeth? Why she looked as if she were trying to look through him?

"Why do you think I was looking for you?" she asked finally. "Why now?"

"I don't know. I really don't, Teresa."

"You're not much of a psychic," she laughed. "If I were paying you, I'd want my money back."

"I'd gladly give you that refund," he chuckled. She had no idea how correct she really was.

She still had her faith. That didn't change in the time he last saw her. She still believed in gifts and powers. He had wondered why she didn't question his career, only laughing at it when he first mentioned it to her. That was before he knew who she was. Now, he knew why she didn't call his profession into question. She lost her thoughts and memories and everything she was, but never wavered in her beliefs. This was normal for people who suffered from amnesia. They kept areas of themselves; religious beliefs, habits, talents... they just couldn't remember _why_ they had them or kept them. Some even picked up new habits. In this case, Jane was glad that the one thing she kept was her acceptance of her own beliefs. It gave him less to explain.

"What about how I got this... what did you call it? Stress Amnesia?"

"I don't know the answer to that, either, Teresa. But I suspect we'll find out on our way to getting your recollections back."

"I wonder what my life was like... _is_ like. What made me just up and decide to try finding you? What the hell was I doing with a gun?"

Jane remained silent at this. He was curious about this, too, and to see how her life turned out, himself. Admitting this made him feel funny. Did he really care? Suddenly, he was sure he did. How dangerous it was to let him think this way.

"So what are we going to do about getting my memory back, anyway? Any other weird tricks up your sleeve?" she went on when Jane said nothing.

"A few," he told her. "A few."

If she only knew that he meant tricks as in a deceptive tool used to stop her from anything she might remember. He knew, however, that no matter what he did to combat her from remembering using his skills, if she ever got a glimpse of that golden cross sitting in his drawer in his room, there would be nothing he could do to stop it. The cross would unleash _everything_.

"Well, what are they?"

He stood and motioned with his head for her to follow him. "Follow me, Teresa."

"Where?"

"The hypnosis room."

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading and reviewing! (I do read all the reviews and appreciate them immensely)<strong>

**Next update will be delayed as I work on a co-authored** **fic. But, we got to hear how Jane got the necklace back, and, in present terms, how he plans to keep Lisbon's memories from coming back. Why so scared of what she's going to remember, Jane? Hmm? ;)**

**I do not own The Mentalist.**


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